


Bitter coin

by oddegg



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dark, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddegg/pseuds/oddegg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 1stclass-kink meme prompt: Erik, solo, metal toys '...the man's been traveling the world on his own for god knows how long. At some point he's bound to have gotten a little experimental.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter coin

He’s in Paris. He’s alone, of course, but in a reasonable hotel room for a change. Better than the usual rat-traps he exists in on his travels. He has a view of the Eiffel Tower out of his window and a balcony open onto the street where he could stand and smoke and watch the passers-by – if he had any interest in doing so.

He’s in Paris and it is summer and the city is thronging with students and lovers; boys shouting out to each other with no anger in their voices, girls beautiful and happy in their light clothes and long hair, smartly dressed adults kissing passionately over _café au lait_ in the shade, conducting their affairs with all the fervour of youth.

It’s 1961 and it’s summer and he’s in Paris: a city that’s alive and bright with hope for the future, and Erik has just killed a man that morning.

He’s naked; lying on top of the sheets on the bed and trying to catch what little breeze is coming through the open balcony window doors, blowing the muslin curtains so that they puff and move sluggishly. The day is very hot and the noise on the street has quietened now that it’s noon and the temperature of the day has hit its peak. Everybody is like him: inside in the shade, panting slightly in the stifling warmth.

But not everybody still has drops of water on their skin from the bath they took in order to wash off the blood of a kill though. Erik does.

The man he had visited that morning had been a respectable _homme d'affaires_ now, no longer a _Blockführer_ from the camps, but that hadn’t mattered. Erik had still seen the sin that he carried around with him, that scabrous spot of corrosion in his soul that no scouring could erase. And he’d bled just like the others before he died, leaving red stains that dissolved and slid off easily into the cool water of the bath; turning it ochre brown around Erik’s forearms as he’d relaxed back against the enamel of the tub.

There’s no trace of the blood left now. Just the dampness from the wash that is merging and giving over to beads of light sweat brought forth by the muggy heat.

There are light fixtures on either side of the bed. Elaborate metal shaped in an Art Nouveau style and ornate with leaves and interlocking vines. In a fit of whimsy Erik twitches his fingers and coaxes them out to hang across the bed and drape over him, trailing out the vines and weaving them together so that he’s watching the golden light that seeps through the drapes from behind a curtain of dull brass leaves. He lets them sway and bob as if they were actually the organic forms they mimic – and as he does one of the leaves brushes over his chest and catches at a nipple and he starts to feel a hot tension gathering low in his belly.

With a thought Erik encourages the brass leaves to lightly caress his torso, the sharp tips of them leaving tiny scratches along his skin, small scuffs that lift tiny scrapes of epidermis off – just enough to redden it.

He lets his head loll back on the pillow; rolls it slowly over to the right so that the bedside table is in view. It holds the contents of his pockets, spilled out there before he stripped for his bath: some loose change rubbing over each other in a pile, a foreign silver coin lying separate from them; some paper money held together by a metal money clip; a knife; a small pad and a steel propelling pencil; a garrotte with brown rusty spots flaking off it. He flicks his fingers and the coins dance to his attention, pile up on top of each other and fuse together lightly at his command.

He doesn’t smooth out their edges. He wants to keep their faintly ridged, rough sides of for the stimulation he knows they will give.

Erik spreads his legs and floats the column of coins over to the bed, dips it down between his thighs to nudge up and brush behind his balls. There’s no intrusive need for lubrication or preparation when he does it like this; the metal knows exactly what he needs, how hard to press, how swiftly to enter. The diameter of the coins is not that great in any case. Erik can meld stainless steel and nickel together; merge the aluminium-bronze of 50 _centimes_ and the slick feel of silver 5 _franc_ coins until he gets precisely the shape and size that he wants. He feels the firm, relentless press of the metal he’s fashioned against his hole and he lets himself go.

The fantasy in his head is not about any one person in particular. Erik has never kept a lover for the length of time it would require for them to take residence in his head like that. What he thinks of instead is random flashes of body parts and sensations: the feel of his cock in the mouth of that boy in Naples; the warmth and swell of the underside of that widow’s breast in Jerusalem; the American GI from the liberation of the camps who’d wanted Erik so much and had taught him all sorts of useful things.

He lets the cool metal very slowly invade and breach him and his thoughts turn to other things – to the slick feel of blood on his skin that morning, and the minute traces of metal he can always feel in it – the way that he’s learned to twist that feeling to his own usage.

He bites his lip. Hard enough to feel the blood. Hard enough to taste the metal, to taste his power bloom out of it and now along with the pain he can feel the touch of the metal inside him; the metal he’s manufactured to give him pleasure and it mingles with the pain of his lip, the expanding hurt of the too-harsh thrust he makes the coin column give but even the pain is part of the pleasure building inside him. He’s learnt to take pain in and twist it and let it flow like molten metal until he makes it something else. He’s panting out loud now, from a heat that’s separate from the heat of the day. He’s moaning from the tight, growing bliss of it.

(Deep in his head Erik hears something different. He hears moans that held no joy in them. Deep in his head Erik sees knives thrust out to cut into him, sees metal that will not obey his call reach for him and a voice saying with monstrous detachment _“I wonder, Erik, does the temperature of the metal alter your control over it? Let us test that, shall we?”_ In his head Erik feels red-hot instruments pressing against his flesh and he screams…)

He’s giving out small, sharp cries now – the metal inside him pushing him on toward his peak. Pressing against his prostrate and twisting against his insides in a relentless, forceful rhythm that drives all other thoughts out of his head; mixes them together in a feel of _‘bloodsweatpainpleasurenownownow’_ that floods his senses and washes him up, up, up… Up to the brink and over it.

Erik lies gasping on the bed. Feels the slick stripes of his own come on his belly and chest; the way his cock softly nestles against his thigh as it slowly deflates back down from its hardness.

He lifts his head slightly; just enough to see the opposite wall and the map and pictures that are always there in any room he stays more than a single night in.

The bright silver gleam of the _Reichmark_ is there embedded in the forehead of the drawing of _Herr Doktor_ , hurled there from the side table by his mind when he reached the height of orgasm. This is where his fantasies always end. In blood and death and destruction.

Erik cannot imagine a better ending.


End file.
